by Tony Black
‘I don’t like any of this, mate.’
Andy looked away, mumbled: ‘You don’t have to, you’re getting paid.’
‘I feel like I’m working for the Klan.’
‘That’s a bit harsh, no one’s been tarred and feathered.’
‘No … only murdered.’ I picked up the list and left Andy alone with his pint and his conscience.
Chapter 16
It was one of those rare days in the Auld Toun, sun splitting the clouds and people with smiles on their faces. On the way from the car park at the old cattle market I’d already spotted two teenage moshas belying their stereotype and belting out Bon Jovi. They had good crowds, but couldn’t compete with the Mexican salsa band that had set up outside Wallace Tower. This lot had an amp, it created a fair racket but the crowd seemed to love it. Even the boys on the fruit and veg stall were tapping their feet in between bouts of patter with their punters.
I looked for a gap in the stream of busses and blue-badge holders and made my way towards the bookshop. The window seemed to be short on a vital ingredient: books. There was a stack of toys and games, I could see a table of Kindles beyond the door, but the books were in short supply. The two they did have featured the smug coupons of Jamie Oliver and Duncan Bannatyne beaming back at me. I was never less tempted to enter a shop. I felt a sinking feeling inside me and longed for the days of the old James Thin store on the Sandgate.
I was sparking up a red-top when I spotted a figure waving at me from across the road. She was at the top of Nile Court, under the great arch, and shimmying round a nascent queue at the ATM. I freed myself from a slouch to return the wave, then waited for her to cross the road.
‘Hello, Rachel.’
She put on a headlamp smile for me, made me think I was in her good books. ‘How do, Doug?’
We planned to head off to the Low Green, but the town was so full of lads carrying carry-outs in that direction that we diverted to Welly Square. It was a fight to find a bench, you just about had to wrestle one from a bloater with a sunburnt torso or a young mum placating a screaming toddler with ice cream.
‘This is mental,’ said Rachel. She seemed to have mellowed from the cub reporter I’d encountered on my last case. The Post was riding high after a string of scoops now, had been through a redesign that had obviously filtered down to the staff.
I started to roll up my shirt sleeves, ‘It’s twenty-five degrees … days like that are as rare as hobby horse manure around here.’
‘It’s almost like summer.’ She clawed at the collar of her blouse. ‘So, what can I do you for?’
It wasn’t a social call, it would be pointless to pretend. I dived in. ‘Well, I’m on a case …’
‘Figures.’ She leaned back on the bench and tipped her face towards the sky; her sunglasses caught the full glare and shone like flashlights.
Rachel had been good to me in the past but we’d had a connection on that occasion – she knew the victim. I had no in with her on this occasion and she’d obviously grown in confidence since our last encounter; I wondered if I wasn’t pressing my luck.
‘I went through the Post’s archives and it’s one of your stories.’
‘Oh, yeah?’
‘Steven Nichols’ murder.’
She drew in her lips, moisture glistened on her brow. ‘I don’t remember that being a premeditated murder. I thought it was just a street fight that went too far.’
‘That’s what the police say.’
I seemed to have her interest. Rachel leaned forward, sat on the edge of the bench, she was repositioning her sunglasses on the top of her head as she spoke again. ‘Are you telling me there’s a cover-up?’
Now that I had her attention, I played coy, shrugged my shoulders and looked down the steps of the County Buildings – they looked cool in deep shadow.
Rachel snorted, it was a dismissive gesture. ‘Oh, you’re so on a fishing trip.’
‘Maybe I am, maybe I’m not.’ I turned back to face her. ‘Are you sure you can afford to rule it out on past form?’
She bit, ‘Your form or the police’s?’
‘Both …’
Rachel looked around for her bag, found it on the gravel; as she picked it up a dusty plume from the dry-ash ground came with it. ‘I’m off, Doug … good luck with the conspiracy theory. I thought for a moment you might have something useful for me, like an answer to why this town’s chock-full of junkies … nobody seems to have an answer to that.’
We rose together. ‘Hang about, just take a look at the lie of the land, that’s all I’m asking … consider it a tip off.’
‘We get fees for them in my racket.’
I raised a hand to shield my eyes from the glaring sun. ‘You’re too young to appreciate deferred gratification, I suppose.’
‘Meaning?’
I took a step forward, looked over her shoulder as I spoke. ‘My information tells me there could be someone on the force worth looking into.’
Rachel reached up for her sunglasses, lowered them onto her nose and let a sly smile emerge on the side of her face. ‘Am I supposed to be tempted by the ring of a police corruption story?’
All that was missing from her demeanour was the head tilted to the shoulder and she would be the picture of sarcastic indifference. I’d seen the look a million times before; my ex-wife wore it every time she knew I was right but didn’t want to let on. There was something about her type that wouldn’t allow them to change a snap judgement, least it showed weakness.
I played to her. ‘Of course, you don’t need me to tell you any of this … a capable hack like yourself can probably clear any suspicion with a couple of phone calls.’
She put her bag on her shoulder and turned away, she was waving to the wide blue sky as she went. ‘Goodbye, Doug.’
I hoped I’d done enough to pique her interest; if I hadn’t my next move was going to be a lot harder.
Chapter 17
I woke with a line from Burns ringing in my head …
‘The honest man, though e’er sae poor,
Is king o’ men, for a’ that!’
I knew the reason for it, the valuation on my mother’s house had come in the day before. There had been a time when the place was a home, where Claire and I had grown up, but at some point – I don’t know when – it had started to be talked of as an asset. We watched the price ascend – two, three, four times what my parents had paid for it. Its current worth was nowhere near those exalted sums and I knew how my sister would react to that.
There was no way I was sitting on the property, waiting and hoping for the market to recover, so I knew my only option was to cut out my share in favour of Claire. She had a family, kids that needed and wanted constantly, I couldn’t deny them what we’d had just because the economy had tanked, it seemed beyond unfair, cruel even. And my needs were few, the RUC pension would put a roof over my head, wherever I ended up.
I dragged myself out of bed and wandered down the stairs towards the kitchen. There was a flyer on the mat for the Gaiety Theatre.
‘Back in business, eh?’ I muttered, managing a rare smile for this hour.
The Gaiety had been a forlorn presence in the town for so long, a visual reminder of its failure that stood proudly proclaiming its presence and vigour that was gleaned from another age. I was delighted to see them back in business; perhaps things weren’t so bad after all. Maybe the town was on the up. I turned over the flyer, seemed like the old Gaiety Whirl was coming back too: no Johnnie Beattie this time but a star role for the home-grown talents of one Chris Taylor.
‘Good on you, lad.’
The smile, thanks to a shot of good news, lasted all the way to the breakfast bar before I felt my heart sinking once more. I still couldn’t get used to the fact that Ben was no longer with us – I was surrounded by memories – even conjured up an old phrase of my father’s to capture the tone.
‘One swallow doesn’t make a summer …’
I picked up the tele
phone receiver and dialled Claire’s number.
Ringing.
‘Hello …’
She sounded stressed. When did she never?
‘Hello, Claire, it’s Doug.’
‘Doug … early for you, isn’t it?’
‘Old habits die hard.’ I heard the sounds of shopping bags rustling in the background. ‘Is now a good time?’
‘I suppose so, what’s up?’ She sounded tired, strained. She always took on too much.
‘I wanted to let you know that I’ve had the house valued and …’
She flared, cut in. ‘You’ve what? Surely that’s a decision for us to make jointly.’
I always knew the conversation was going to strike a delicate note with Claire, but hadn’t foreseen the immediate leap towards fighting talk. Her voice rose, became a cackle, then rose higher yet. She gave me just enough space in the dialogue to mention the price and then the stratosphere didn’t seem far enough away to ignore her.
‘There’s no way … we’ll simply have to wait until the market recovers!’
‘Claire, that’s not an option … I’m moving on.’
A loud tut. ‘I don’t believe this. You’ve got itchy feet again so we have to suffer.’
I thought her phrasing was a little strong. She hadn’t heard me out. ‘Look, I’m not going to take a cut, Claire, the proceeds of the house sale are yours to do what you like with.’
She was silenced. The news had thrown her off balance but her voice was still in the clouds. ‘I don’t believe you.’
‘What?’
‘Is this some kind of joke?’
‘No, Claire … how could you say that? I want you and your family to have my share.’
A lengthy gap stretched out on the line.
‘Claire … Claire …’
She’d hung up.
I looked at the phone and flummoxed a response. ‘What in the name of …’
Her reaction had blindsided me. I couldn’t believe she would be so petty over something like our dead parent’s home. And then I remembered it had been a long time since this place was a home.
A thought occurred to me that Claire might be doing worse than I thought. I remembered my married days – there was never enough money in the pay packet, my wife had always wanted more. Had I let my own life situation creep into this judgement? Had I any right to sell up and move on without my sister’s say so? I felt suddenly trapped in the one place I didn’t want to be. A tight constriction gripped my chest; I knew what it meant to be trapped … in a marriage, in a thankless career, literally trapped, with no way out.
I moved over to the sink and opened the window, let some morning air insinuate itself on my face. There was a light dusting of dew on the lawn, a slow bleed of sunrays etching a dark portcullis beyond the fence and wall. At first I didn’t even register the figure sitting in one of the patio chairs, slowly drawing on a cigarette. The back was broad, the shoulders square, and not unfamiliar. When he turned to see me at the window he waved quickly, rose and flattened his cigarette underfoot.
I was almost lost for words, but not quite.
‘Mason, what on Earth are you doing?’
His steps across the flags were brisk. ‘We need to talk, Doug.’
Chapter 18
The sight of Mason greeting me at this early hour T-boned me into despondency – I knew it meant trouble. Maybe the chat with my sister added to it, but either way the result was the same. I watched my friend’s bulky movements in my mother’s small kitchen and felt the situation was surreal.
‘You need to think about getting some security in that garden,’ said Mason. ‘Some sensor lights at the least … and a lock on the gate.’
‘Don’t you think you’re preaching to the converted? And anyway, it’s going on the market. I’m moving on.’
He didn’t reply to my last remark, his face perpetuating a stolid Ayrshire stock, as he sat behind the breakfast bar and pawed at an old copy of the Post.
As I poured grey coffee into cups Mason began to snigger, but seemed far from amused.
I took the bait. ‘Something tickle your fancy?
He flicked the page of the Post. ‘This missing parrot story … I think you missed a trick there.’
I handed over the coffee and sat down in front of him. I’d made the mistake of rising once, I wasn’t going to do it again.
‘No, I’m serious, Doug … you being an investigator for hire and all that now.’
He wasn’t going to let up. I lowered the cup and fixed him in my glare. ‘Let’s cut to the chase. What’s this about?’
He smiled. ‘It’s a missing parrot, surely that’s within your abilities. You know what a parrot looks like, don’t you?’
‘Mason, if you’ve come round to wind me up, I’m in no mood.’
He slammed down the paper. ‘Wind you up? Do you think I’ve got that much time on my hands now that the Post are firing questions at the press office on your wild goose – or is that parrot – chase?’
I couldn’t hold back a grin, but I seemed to get away with it because Mason thought I was referring to his repartee. My meeting with Rachel hadn’t been a total waste of time – she’d stoked the hornets’ nest and I could ask no more than that.
I played the innocent. ‘Oh, really?’
‘Don’t come it with me, Doug … it was the Maciver girl, I know she’s one of your contacts.’
He near spat the last word out.
‘I think you overestimate me, mate, and maybe underestimate the public feeling on this case. Stevie Nichols was just a young lad, no one likes to see callow youth wasted like that.’
‘The case is closed.’
‘That what John Scott told you?’
He picked up his cup and started to gulp; his eyes inferred he was swallowing much more anger than coffee. When he stopped, he placed the cup down and silently drummed fingers off his temples. It was a highly affected look, histrionic, and all for my benefit.
‘Look, Doug, if you must know I did take a look over the case files …’
‘And …?’ my voice came like a bark.
‘And they’re sound. There’s nothing irregular in the slightest. You’ve no call to start unpicking John Scott’s work.’
The fact that the notes were sound said nothing to me, if I was covering tracks I’d make sure I did a professional job of it and I wouldn’t expect a DI of Scott’s calibre to do anything else. The fact that they were so clean said more to me than anything else; everything looked and sounded clean cut – too clean cut. I felt the lining of my gut moving.
Mason picked up his cup again, drained the contents and rose. ‘So, do you believe me now?’
‘Of course. Why would I doubt you?’
He looked surprised, wide whites of eyes on show. ‘Well, you being you.’
I smiled, the headshakes which followed were involuntary. ‘Mason, do you expect me to go back to that boy’s father and say, hand on heart, I’ve done the best I could?’
Mason’s mouth opened, there was a phrase to describe it: catching flies.
‘No,’ I said, ‘I didn’t think you would expect me to do that. And why? Because I’m too good a cop, I take pride in my work and I know what I’m doing. This isn’t a game to me, it’s about justice … right and wrong, remember those?’
He leaned forward and tapped the newspaper; ‘Then get chasing that parrot, or a wife that’s playing away from home, a teenage runaway maybe … Don’t be going after decent coppers because you have a wild idea that something doesn’t add up. You need more than that to build a case.’
I rose to meet Mason’s glare. ‘Oh, I know that. I intend to get all the evidence I need.’
His jaw jutted, he spoke through his lower teeth, ‘Leave the police work to the professionals, Doug.’
‘That’s what Bert Nichols did and he’s still fallen short on answers.’
He took a step towards the door, gripped a bunch of hair in his hand. ‘Do you forget the trouble
you caused for the service the last time you got into something like this?’
He used the term the service to rattle me, to let me think there’d been some changes since my time. That I was out of my depth. Messing with the big boys. I folded my arms and leaned into the wall, like I was deflecting the notion.
‘Mason, my memory’s not that short … and you never know, when I finish up this time, you might be trading that Beamer in for a Jag.’
He turned, put a stare on me. He had a finger raised, the words of a messy lecture hung on his lips, but he somehow found the poise to gather them in.
‘You can only kill a sheep once, Doug … but you can shear it every day. You should remember that.’
He was walking away as my chance to reply escaped me.
Chapter 19
Mason’s reaction to the call from Rachel at the Post had bemused me at first. I hadn’t expected him to immediately re-open the case – or anything like it – but to see him flying to the defence of DI Scott, on such tenuous grounds, was a bit of a shock. I’d seen coppers take to rank with a fervour for the old noblesse oblige before, but generally they were younger and a lot less experienced. Mason had quite a few years on the dial and I was sure he knew exactly the way things worked on the force; even if he was calling it the service now.
My initial instinct was to dig deeper, get some background on John Scott and see if there was more to my suspicions, but I let it slide. I knew that would be the reactive route and good results rarely followed the pattern of running with your emotions. I’d take my interest in DI Scott a little further later; right now I had a list of names, courtesy of Andy’s recent delivery, to look at. And if DI Scott was half the detective he purported to be then he’d already know I was onto him – maybe he’d spare me the bother and come looking for me.
I moved into the living room and put on the television because the silence in the big empty house was getting to me. Jeremy Kyle was on again, blasting some poor lad: ‘And what would you have done if the drugs had killed you?’ The poor kid didn’t even have the marbles to muster a reply. The whole scene made me think about what Rachel had said of the Auld Toun’s drug problem – there was no easy answer to where they came from when the whole country was sinking ever deeper into the easy release of oblivion.
